Dear Courtney Rome...

Sorry for the wait, life is crazy and I'm sure you were more than a little disappointed by the lack of a white elephant. Just letting you know you weren't forgotten, it's on its way, but you can't rush art I suppose. So, for now, here's a picture of a penguin

[REDACTED]

I remember looking out the airplane window into a bright white blank slate.

And maybe in the end all it meant was there too many clichéd Hollywood effects stored away in my brain, but for a second I swear it meant we were all dead.

Maybe I knew, deep down, that we'd emerge from that logical product of condensation perfectly alive.

But for a second, we were all dead together.

First-class passengers still closed their business deals, those girls in front of me kept checking out that boy, and he kept pretending not to notice.

The Avengers on my neighbor's iPad kept saving New York, but despite the Hollywood effects, no one wrote a hero into our movies.

Not a single one.

We were just more extras grounded into the screenplay's ink and forgotten before the popcorn ran out.

And maybe that was okay.

hello, it's me

How Corporate Commander Killed Creativity

A long time ago, in Ogden, my father who was just a dumb little ten year old kid being dragged to some movie called StarWars that he had no desire to see. He had wanted to go out and play or do anything other than see this dumb movie that he had never heard anything about. He sat down in the old theater in that grumpy way that anyone who has ever met a ten year old knows, and then it started. Suddenly his senses were assaulted by a sweeping musical score, booming sounds of turrets and the roar of massive engines as two massive star ships swept across the screen. Truly this was a spectacle to behold, and it was like nothing his ten year old mind had ever dreamed it would see. To this day he still says that he will never forget the first time he saw that and, then the 11 times after that, because it was like nothing he had ever seen before.  This was the case for just about everyone who walked into the theater in 1977, and it launched a worldwide phenomenon which to this day is still running strong (Don't let us down JJ!)

However, experiences like this have become almost non existent, and to this day the effects of the original StarWars are much more fun to look at and watch than that of most movies today (But that's a rant for another day). What I want to talk about today is how Corporations and all of their guidelines, statistics, and whatnot are killing creativity in just about every medium. If you go to a summer film, chances are it is a re-make of an older movie, an adaptation of a book, comic-book, or even video game, a dramatization of real-life events (although done right those are awesome.), or just a paint by numbers rehash of the same basic plot we have all seen a thousand times that offers nothing new really except for some fun distraction for a couple hours. The same goes for video games, which are all becoming clones of each other aside from a few games made by indie developers (more on those later), not even books are safe from this, and even music can tend to fall into the snare of Corporate Commander (I have to mention music because that's the prompt for the week).

I believe that this death of creativity is caused but corporations and statistics that say "people don't want a story about knights and dragons." or "that could offend someone." or "I liked it, but I'm not sure it will play in the mid-west."  In fact I remember reading somewhere that many game publishers said that they would not even consider working on a game unless there was a franchise or series that would come out of it. Why did they say this? Because it is too expensive to do otherwise. Most movies and games cost millions of dollars to produce it seems like (it's more money than I'll ever see anyways) that's just ridiculous I think. Movie studios know this too because at the end of film credits there is always a note saying that the making of this film provided so many people with jobs for however long and whatnot as if to say "Yeah, we know we spent and inordinate amount of money making this, but hey it's justified because, jobs!" And yeah people need jobs, and good for them for employing all those people. But I would like to point out that the original Star Wars was a very low budget film (Compared to most films today anyways, only about 20% of the total budget went to the effects and the budget was only $10 million. The more you know!) so now that you know that you know why the effects of star wars are so impressive considering that they still stand up today and look better than a lot of modern movies because, you know, you can see whats happening and it looks somewhat real (because the ships were real. I really don't like CGI) But more importantly, to get that budget it took George Lucas several attempts with several studios before someone gave him the green-light. Now all of those studios all are kicking themselves for not seeing how great the idea was but at the time they were saying "that will never take off." "there's no money in this." And it is exactly that mentality that has more or less killed creativity today. no one is willing to take risks anymore because they might lose money, make a fool of themselves, or it might just not sell. (or it might offend someone which is bogus. stop being offended so easily please. Censorship is ugly. so are people. Sorry, my brain left my head for a moment.)

Anyways, that's my rant for this week. Don't let Corporate commander kill your creativity with his cash grabbing schemes and just create because you want too and because you see value in it because that's more important than making more money than James Cameron's Titanic or being top of the box office or a best seller for three weeks straight.

That is all.

Rocket Ships

People are kind of like rocket ships. They are complicated and not a whole lot of people know how they work and what they're made of. 

Rocket ships can take us to far away places. Places we had never dreamed of. Places we never knew or thought existed. 

Once there though.... They can break down. They can leave us stranded somewhere that we may not have even wanted to be. Alone. Wondering, how did I even wind up here in the first place and is there any hope that I can be saved from here?

When you climb aboard a rocket ship you put an awful lot of trust in it that this journey will not end like that. When you open your heart to someone you hope that too. 

Rocket ships are a lot like people. And in your adventures you take you will be stranded at least once, sometimes it will be a faulty rocket ship that wasn't calibrated to your piloting style. Sometimes it will be your own error. Sometimes a combination of both. 

In the end it's hard to tell what went wrong. You may never know, even after you've crawled from the wreckage and pulled the good pieces out of what was once your beautiful rocket ship to make shelter and keep you warm until you can move on. 

So yeah.... People are a lot like rocket ships. If you care to see it that way. 

A year ago

A year ago we met, and you changed my life

A year ago I wanted to go try drugs with you

A year ago I wanted to spend as much time as possible with you even if I had to lie to do it

A year ago I was a fool

A year ago I was ignorant to the pain sorrow and regret you would bring 

A year ago I thought I loved you

Maybe I still do

But time changes things

With time all fantasies end

With time we all wake up 

I woke up

Not because I wanted to

I fought it

But reality always wins 

Especially when fighting a fantasy 

Reality always wins

A year ago I was in a fantasy

A year ago I thought we could make

A year ago I was wrong

I hope a year from now it won't hurt anymore

I hope a year from now I've moved on completely

I hope a year from now I've Found someone else

I hope a year from now it lasts and I'll be able to look at her, smile, and say 

A year ago we met, and you changed my life. 

Posting this before it's too late...

I hope this isn't too late. It may be... But all the same, I think it best that I share this with you so that you don't wind up in the same spot I am.

It all started a few months ago... It was just a normal day, nothing out of the ordinary. In fact I was excited because I would be meeting someone who many of my friends held in high regard. I admit I was a bit uneasy at first, trying not to let the stories, which I assumed to be embellished, cloud my judgement as is so often the case for me. I listened to him speak for an hour, remaining awkward and uncomfortable as this eccentric hipster told me all about the great opportunities awaiting me this year.
The initial shock slowly wore off, and as time drew on I began to feel at home around this man. That was my first mistake. It was this false sense of security that got me to the point I am now, where every weekend I try and relax only to see hos face in the back of my mind pulling me towards my computer.
At first it was no big deal. It was fun even, getting to explore a new world with him and others that he had brought under him. I even looked forward to these times when once or twice a week I would fill out a request for his amusement.
Only now... I find it eating away at me... I now realized I was tricked by him. He has gotten inside my head and now I can't see a man with a beard or hear the word "Sunday" without hearing his demented laugh in the back of my head. This man has ruined my life, I now find that every Sunday I can't sleep until I have performed for his amusement.
I'm warning you now, if you are told stories of a teacher who will change your life, run. Whoever told you that has already been brainwashed by this hipster who promises to teach you free thought. I am only able to resist his pull because of my innate authority problem, but I fear my time is running out... I fear he knows that I resist his methods.
Tonight I am locking my doors, windows, and covering the airvents just to be sure... that won't stop him though... his mind is so far outside of any box it is too difficult to anticipate his next move. I will just sit and wait... when he comes for me with his starbucks, indie music, and bizarre antics... I'll be as ready as one can be...
This is Cahlebe Haddad signing off and wishing all of you out there good luck. Don't fall for the trap.

Long Live the Rebellion.







   

Watchers

(Occasionally I will post little things of "lore" that pertains to the world of the stories such as Below and Shadow of Winter)

Excerpt from the Creation Tomes 

" And it was decided that there should be guardians made out of mortal men to protect their brothers and sisters. 

    And the Creator declared that there should be twenty and four of these guardians which He named Watchers. And they were deemed Watchers because of the blessing of divine sight which was bestowed upon them. 

     Behold, this blessing was given to each in the form of a wooden mask that when worn granted the Watcher divine sight. And these masks were made of a single tree, yea even one of the oldest trees remaining on the earth. And the craftsmanship of these masks were exceedingly fine although to the eyes of many they appeared plain and simple.

Now it should be known that the blessing of divine sight did work in many ways according to the righteousness of the wearer and the will of the Creator.

 Yea, divine sight could even grant the Watcher precognition of events that had yet to come to pass.  However it should be known also that divine sight could also be used to grant the Watcher improved vision in such ways that they could see men through barriers and walls, yea even the mightiest of walls constructed by man. 

And it was also given by the Creator that the Watchers should use their blessing that they might see demons and wraiths and all manner of being which should not appear before the naked eye. 

Yea this was done that the Watchers might protect those that these dark creatures would prey upon. 

   .....

And it came to pass that during the second age of man the Watchers were hunted by a sky-dweller named Ren-Thalgor. 

And it came to pass that Ren-Thalgor, being a wicked and blasphemous man with delusions of godhood, did capture and slay many of the Watchers, yea he did even slay fifteen of the twenty and four Watchers. 

And behold the masks of the fifteen were lost after their wearers were slain and it is believed that many of the masks were destroyed by those who did slay them.

But behold when times demanded it one of these masks would resurface into the hands of a righteous individual and this was done that man should not be destroyed nor led into captivity by those with dark hearts. 

And behold, those with wicked hearts and intent would find no blessing of divine sight through the eyes of the masks. 

Yea they would see the world as if they were without a mask. Meaning that the mask will only work when worn by a righteous man with a pure spirit and humble heart."

End of excerpt. 

Death is the leading cause of Life

What is it to be alive? Is it simply performing basic biological functions needed for an organism to survive? Is it the need for love and a desire to create? 

Lots of people say it is

But what causes that? What makes us want to be loved and to find love? What makes us want to create and leave our mark on the world?

It's simple

Death. 

Death is why we create. Death is why we take risks. Or more correctly Fear of Death. The fear of dying and the knowledge that one day, no matter what, it will come for us all; is what makes a person alive because without that fear and that knowledge we become idle. And when we are idle we are no different than the rocks and dirt beneath our feet. 

That is why Death is the leading cause of Life. 

A Brick to the Head is worth two in the Chest

     Just think about it; if you get hit in the head once with a brick, chances are you're dead. Bummer. I believe however that you can survive two hits to the chest with a brick and probably be relatively okay unless of course you never drink your milk so you have weak bones that break and puncture your lungs, major arteries, and heart all at once.

Honestly I have no idea what to say about bricks, I could make it some symbolic poem about love and life and stuff but that requires effort. I'm not feeling it today so yeah.


Bricks; they'll getcha every time.

                                                                   
end of post

What is love?

....baby don't hurt me... don't hurt me... no moooooore............

Love is Complicated. Especially for a high school student who has been told repeatedly that they don't know what love is because they have never felt it. After all how could they? I mean we are just a bunch of stupid kids aren't we? Sure we probably don't actually know what it is but if you ask anyone to define it, even adults, they'll be unsure of how to define it because it can be so different for so many people.


Maybe trying to define Love is a waste of time....


Or maybe we are over thinking it. Maybe it's just so simple that we have all over looked it. Maybe Love is just... love. There really is nothing else that compares to real love. So why do love an injustice by describing it in inadequate and mediocre terms. Love is some thing you feel, so trying to qualify and quantify it is a waste of time, because when it comes down to it Love doesn't make a lot of sense and there aren't words to describe the feeling accurately.

I've been in love before, and to anyone else it didn't make sense. I couldn't tell you what it was like because it is something everyone needs to experience. But that is just one kind of Love.

Love has many faces and forms and is not the same between all people at all times.

So just feel it instead of trying to define it because it is just a waste of time to try and define it.

Murphy, it's you!

In the theme of being human here is a song that I feel describes it very well, enjoy:

What does it mean to be human? I do not care.

Firstly, every time we talked about 'being human' and all that stuff this is all I could think about...
            (it says one or two bad language words so be warned.)

Anyways, now you know what I spent most of my time thinking about during class. But really what is it to be human? I guess the easy answer and the one that makes the most sense to me is our ability to choose and make mistakes. For instance I can provee that im not a robot becuz this sentence is loadid with all sortz of mistakes, well actually im chusing too make theze mistakes. thee reel mistake iz that I'm turning it in late. A robot cant do that. You want to know what else a robot can't do? Robots can't love. Or laugh. They also have piercing red eyes and run on batteries. and they do this...

anyways. this is a lame post and it really doesn't talk about anything profound but I'm not feeling super profound, I just feel like being kind of goofy right now. 

Emotion is another human trait that robots do not posses. Sure we can program them to mimic some emotions but they can't really feel. That must suck really, just exisitng and doing but not having any emotion or passion at all. We all say it would be easier not to feel and some people say that they want that but honestly I think it is better to feel, to be reminded that you are human than to feel nothing at all and be a robot or just a lifeless husk going through the motions of day to day life.

Anyways, that is all. 

lik dis if u kry erey tim. 

Below Pt. 4

Viewer discretion advised. If you are easily disturbed, find yourself easily triggered by reading about depression, suicides, or disturbing imagery, I would advise you to skip over this story and wait for a different story, as Below contains material that some may find disturbing or may cause relapses into self-destructive habits. 

 Above her, in the rafters, the hooded figure slipped silently into the room and took watch from the shadows above, soon she drifted off into sleep, as did the old man. The hooded figure dropped down quietly, his split robes splaying out beneath him as he crouched. He knelt beside the girls bed, and peeled back the blanket carefully, revealing her iron band. He gently took it in his hands and whispered words of a foreign tongue over it that created a soft purple and white glow on her arm. Her breathing became less labored immediately after that and, using the edge of his robe he wiped her blood from the shackle and her pale skin gently cleaning her. Then the hooded figure pulled the blanket back over her and leaned forward kissing her forehead gently feeling great sorrow for the fragile girl. With that the figure retreated into the shadows of the rafters where he too drifted into sleep soon after. 

      ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

        As Aela and the stranger slept, Vlad and Daelin made their way through the muddy streets in silence. Daelin had been horrified listening to the screams of the girl, he had wanted to turn around and defend her but knew better than to try such a thing. The girl could only have been just over five feet tall and barely 100 pounds, she looked as if she weren't even in her twentieth year of life yet and already she had been punished in such a horrible way. Ask he and Vlad walk through the dark underworld, their boots sloshing through the mud, lanterns in the distance appearing as orange stars on a low horizon; Daelin thought more about the girl. 

       He tried to  justify what had happened, perhaps she was truly a hardened criminal responsible for some heinous act. Maybe she had gutted her entire family while they slumbered or had made a living stealing from the nobles. None of these made sense though, that shackle was meant for an inmate who would most likely be returning to the surface one day soon after spending a short span of time below. Besides that she had carried herself just as a frightened young girl would and not like a criminal.  

       So what could it have been? What could have been so horrible that this was necessary? As he pondered these things he continued to grow angrier, hearing her screams echoing in his mind. Daelins thoughts were interrupted by Vlad guiding him in to a vacant looking building. It was built in the same fashion as all the others, square and a few floors tall. It sagged slightly with age, just like everything else in the city, although the buildings below seemed to sag even more as if they had all sunken into a deep depression after being robbed from sunlight so long ago. They entered the building and found it sparsely furnished with tipped over rotting wood furniture. 

       When the door closed behind them Daelin burst and grabbed a startled Vlad by his coat and slammed him against the wall next to the door. "What in the Burning Hells was that?!" He nearly screamed with rage. Their faces were close together in the dark and Daelins breathing was heavy with anger. Vlad took a moment to gather his bearings after being caught so off guard, he gripped Daelins forearms and spoke as calmly as he could.

"What was what?" 

"You know what." Daelin shook him,"I signed up to fight bad guys, not abuse children!" 

"Daelin," Vlad said, "she was not a child. She was an inmate. A prisoner. And what we did was for her own protect--"

"What did she do?!" Daelin shouted. "What did she do that made it so she deserved to have a silver spike plunged into her wrist?" 

"I don't know." Vlad answered, his voice was low, trying to diffuse the situation "I don't know, what she did.... But I do know, that what was done to her was for her own protection." Daelin released his grip and stepped backwards slowly, his eyes pointing down and his breathing heavy. "What she went through tonight," Vlad continued, straightening his now wrinkled collar out,"will be the worst she has to go through if we do our job; which is to stop whoever is targeting protected prisoners." 

      Daelin had sat down with his back against the wall behind him. He was tired and angry. "Better rest up," Vlad said striding over to an old couch "we've got a long day ahead of us. You'll want to be as alert as possible come morning." With that he sprawled out on the decrepit old couch and slowly drifted off to sleep. Daelin simply sat and stared off into the darkness, he thought about what Vlad had said and what he had seen. His mind was still racing trying to figure out just what was what and why when he fell asleep. 

It's late. So I'm writing my train of thought

It's currently 2:03 AM as I write this. It's late, or maybe it's early. I dunno. I don't care about the technicalities of it all. The point is I can't sleep. My bed was so uncomfortable that I had to relocate to the couch in my front room, finally I've been able to unclench my jaw. I have a bad habit of grinding my teeth and keeping my jaw clenched 98% of the time. I don't know when it started, I think it was after my last break up but I don't know. Does it matter? Maybe. Maybe not. 

Who cares. 

Today I was talking to a friend on Facebook about nothing in particular. One thing led to another and she set me up with a friend of hers. At first it was weird, but after a while we got comfortable chatting and things started going well, but she fell asleep I guess. I dunno, she just stopped returning my messages. I hope she didn't find me annoying or something. I kinda liked talking to her, it was nice and I enjoyed it a lot actually. Oh well. In a few hours I suppose she will wake up and see my messages from earlier that she missed. 

Why am I telling you this?

The ceiling fan in my TV room needs to be oiled. It squeaks terribly, rocking back and forth. But I guess I like it. It's kind of rhythmic and an easy sound to focus on. That and the fish tank which is a soft hum in the background. Other than that, it's quiet here. I like quiet. Sometimes when things get loud and hectic in my house I have to go lock myself in my room because if not I feel like my head is going to explode and want to pull my eyes out. Well not really. I don't think I could pull them out. I mean I'm physically capable of it I'm sure, my forearms are fairly muscular, not my biceps though. Guess I need to lift more. 

It's now 2:12. I thought writing this would help lull me to sleep. It's not working yet. I ate a sandwich before I started writing. It was peanut butter and grape jelly, I can still taste the peanut butter. Like literally I think some is stuck to my teeth. Nope. I just Checked. It's all clean. For whatever reason I've had the Woody's Roundup theme stuck on repeat in my head for over an hour.......

.....Woody's roundup.... Come on it's time to play...... There's Jesse the yodlin cowgirl *yodels* bullseye, he's Woody's horse "he's so smart" meet the old prospector. (I know there's something here. Nelson pull this up in class and lets listen to it.) oh hey my dogs awake. She's staring at me. Hi doggy....

....now it's time for Sheriff Woody, he's the very best, he's the rootin-est tootin-est cowboy in the wild-wild-west. 

Woodyyyyys Rooounduuuuuuuup. 

In retrospect my conversation with that girl could have gone a lot worse. She's pretty cute. I'd be happy to see where it goes. Hopefully somewhere. But not Nebraska. Or New Jersey. Ugh New Jersey.... I dated someone from there. It's best I don't talk about that now. Because that's a long post. Not bad, just long. I think she reads my blog haha. Weird right? I also got web traffic from England. But that's because I was talking to someone from England and we were talking about writing and yeah. My dogs back!!! She's confused and now I'm scratching her head and writing with one hand. Go me. 

2:23

I guess I'll finish up now. I've been writing for 20 minutes straight. How fun is that? I'm basically the best writer ever. Maybe. I dunno. I'm behind on my blog posts. So this'll count for one. YA HEAR ME NELSON?? ONE DOWN THREE TO GO!!! 

Thank you for your time. 

Like. comment. Subscribe. 

this post is DiFfErEnT

So this weeks post is supposed to be different. My blog is already very different from the rest, at least I think it is. Regardless of if it is or is not different I feel comfortable saying that it is different because I haven't seen any other blogs posting stories like I do and maybe I'm just not reading enough? I dunno, if I'm not please let me know and I'll definitely go check out that one other blog and comment on what I like and don't like about it because that is always really helpful when writing, especially when writing stories.

Now if I am going to be different than I normally am this week I'll just write a sad poem about my childhood or that hot person who doesn't even know I exist so that I can get a whole lot of comments and feel better (seriously I have a total of like 9 comments and I'll be honest it's a little bit depressing to get zero feedback on the stuff that you have been pouring yourself into for the past several years; yes, before you ask, my story Below has been in the works since mid ninth grade I think.) So getting comments would be nice but I guess I don't want to be just another sad poet, and not because I am a heartless tourist who feels nothing. To the contrary, I feel a lot, so much in fact that at times I wish there was one big off switch that I could hit temporarily just to get a brief reprieve from it all; but there's not and the only off switch is permanent and that's not what I'm looking for. So instead of being another sad poet I choose to take all of my emotions and the sadness and use it to create something larger than life. I use it to create a new world with grand stories that I feel are very relatable to more people than you might think. And sometimes I just write a story about monsters and demons because I think that would be cool, because not everything needs to be deep and symbolic to be a beautiful piece of art.

Now before all of you loud mouth I'm-gonna-stand-up-for-the-oppressed-minority people start chewing me out in furious anger in the comments (assuming anyone is reading this besides Nelson) I'm not saying that sad poems about your ex backing over your dog aren't good, in fact I've enjoyed a lot of them and even commented on a few. However I really think that maybe we should all try something a little different because most every blog I read are sad poems about your drunk dad using your dog to beat on your now ex-boyfriend (isn't it weird how most of the sad "you don't see me" poems are all by girls, or I guess there could be a gay guy or two in the mix, but they all talk about some guy so yeah.I digress.) Anyways... I simply think that maybe we should experiment more, write a story! make up characters and use your situations to create something that is, in my opinion, far more unique than the lyrics to some kind of emo country song where at the end you've lost your dog, spouse, and sobriety. I guess that's the point of this prompt though, is to try something new, something that's maybe a little difficult or that could offend someone or that could wind up just being looked at as weird and kinda dumb by all the other bloggers. But just remember that the guy who wrote Eragon was told by all of his peers that a story about guys riding dragons and elves was stupid but now the guy is a freaking bojillionheir.

So go ahead and hate away if you want, because I'm sure I've offended someone, and this was not meant to be offensive. I wrote this because for the past couple weeks I've been doing something radically different and have noticed that all of the comments wind up on rants or poems or posts that are written with the intention of creating controversy (which by the way is lame and just lazy. stop it.) and I guess I was also kind of disappointed that in a CREATIVE writing class there seems to be about the same amount of creativity as there is in Hollywood which is very minimal and just kind of the same thing over and over again. So sorry if I offended anyone, I have actually enjoyed quite a few of the sad My-Boyfriend-and-Dog-Eloped-without-me poems because they are relatable but I think we should kind of branch out more as writers and try new things and then COMMENT on the posts after reading and give useful feedback. (Yes I'm a little upset that I haven't gotten any comments.)


Thank you for your time and God-Bless.

Childhood and Growing up in a Nutshell

I really feel like the following clip thoroughly explains childhood, growing up, and life in general as I see it. Take a look....

I really couldn't say it better if I tried. 

Below Pt.3

Viewer discretion advised. If you are easily disturbed, find yourself easily triggered by reading about depression, suicides, or disturbing imagery, I would advise you to skip over this story and wait for a different story, as Below contains material that some may find disturbing or may cause relapses into self-destructive habits. 

Chapter 2

       Aela was awoken by the sound of heavy footfalls echoing through the halls of the holding cells. It was now completely dark save for some pale moonlight shining through the slits of the cell door from somewhere outside. Her throat was dry and if she tried to speak it brought pain. She was slumped in the corner next to the door and must have fallen asleep earlier although she did not clearly remember doing so. Her sleeves were still slightly damp from her break down earlier and she felt as though she was covered in a greasy film all over her body. 

        The footsteps became louder and she could here metal clinking rhythmically with each step. Slowly a pale orange glow filled the hallway and a guard stopped outside her cell, he pulled a large key ring off his belt and turned the heavy lock of the door. The sharp edge of the door only nearly missed Aela as she backed up groggily and blinked in the now blinding light of the torch. "Come on out of there missy, stays over." The guard spat out and pulled her by the wrist into the hallway. Looking past him she saw two other prisoners shackled together as well as a few more guards all wearing the same blue and maroon coats under their dark iron armor as every other guard she had seen so far. Large shackles were clasped around her wrists and ankles that connected her to the other two prisoners in the hall. She had never seen them before, one was a tall skinny man who easily blended with the rest of Dagoraths population, the other however was clearly a foreigner. His dark olive skin marked him as a desert man as did his narrow eyes and sharp features. She thought he looked sad when he saw her but his face then became a ridged stone thereafter and would remain like that for the rest of the journey. 

         After collecting the lunatic, who turned out to be an old man with eyes glazed over from alcohol and drug use, they made a short journey through the cramped hallways before reaching a single massive iron door at the end of a hall. It had no handles to speak of and was covered in bolts and reenforcement bands stretching across it's length. To either side of the hallway there was a small room with a large crank attached to an equally large gear. When the signal was given two guards stationed in each room began the laborious task of turning the crank which slowly parted the iron gate. Once the heavy door was opened the convoy was led forward, all eyes on them. Aela noticed that the gate was made of two layers with a small gap in between and her stomach turned when she thought of being trapped in there after the doors closed. 

        Once through the massive gate the guards began turning their gears once more and the doors slid closed with a bang as the convoy moved down the remaining length of the hallway and through yet another door; this one was very similar to the cell doors only it opened out. Once passing through here Aela found herself in a small courtyard surrounded by thick metal bars creating a square cage. There were four additional guards here, two by the smaller door she had just exited, and two by a large gothic gate on the opposite end of the courtyard. 

        They stopped in the middle of the courtyard and simply stood there for a minute. Aela looked past the gate and saw several rundown buildings jutting out of the darkness along with several orange dots that looked like stars off in the distance. It looked as if this world was shrouded in an eternal night with no moon and no stars above, and aside from the torches scattered around the horizon there was only a soft blue glow of moonlight seeping through the cracks of the boardwalk above. What she could not see however was a hooded figure poised on one of the rotting rooftops watching her and the other prisoners.

         Aela heard the door behind her open and close once more and two more guards came through carrying small two small parcels each. Then, the man in front, the tall skinny one, was unlocked from his shackles and handed one of the packages and led to the black gate before them where he stood patiently. Next was the desert man, he too was handed a package and then took his place in front of the gate. 

        Now the guard began unlocking Aelas shackles and they fell to the ground with a clank. However a second guard then came from the side, pulled her sleeve up to her elbow and slapped another shackle on. This one however was connected to no chains and was just a simple band of iron with the official emblem of the Dagorath Council branded into it. Aside from that the iron was smooth except for two small holes that exposed the fleshy area of her arm on either side. The first guard then pulled a thin silver spike from his belt along with a hammer and pressed the cold shiny metal to her arm. Realizing what was happening she struggled to get away protesting loudly shouting that she would not remove the band under any circumstances. She was held in place by two guards then and a block was placed under her arm. The first guard raised the hammer and her eyes widened and she struggled more, tears welling in her eyes and screams of protest echoing in the dark. The screams grew louder and were joined by the clanging of metal until the band was secure. During this the lunatic lurched forward and tried to help her but was met by a gloved fist knockong him back into the dirt. 

       When it was finished her screams trailed off into sobs and she fell to her knees trembling just mumbling out "I wasn't going to take it off.... I wasn't.... I wasn't going to take it of...." The band was now slick with blood, her blood, and her arm was in a pain the likes of which she had never felt before. She could feel the metal inside her, it was roughly as thick as a quill tip so she could still move her hand and fingers freely once the wound healed itself, but the band would remain a part of her for the rest of her life and even after. Aela was roughly pulled up by her other arm and handed her own package before she took her place at the gate, stifling sobs as best she could. Her face was a mess, covered in tears and mucus draining from her nose. She stood breathing shakily, her legs week and the world seemed to spin around her. Still, she did not see the hooded figure whose form was now ridged with fury, his hands clenched tightly into fists lusting for the blood of the men who had just harmed this defenseless girl before him. 

          Once the lunatic was released from his shackles and handed his package he took his place beside Aela and offered a comforting hand to the trembling girl. The guards were called to attention then and loud metal grinding and clanking echoed in the dark as the black gate slowly glided open. With that the four prisoners took their first steps into their new homes below the rest of the world, and the hooded figure continued to watch Aela as she stumbled with the old drunk through the dirt. They made their way to a decrepit building down the road; it was as far as the small girl could go. The building sagged and was full of holes and many windows were boarded up, inside was a number of drunks slumbering peacefully on the first floor as well as a cat with eyes that shined brightly in the dark. The lunatic and the girl carefully picked their way across the room and up the stairs to the deserted second floor where there was the remenants of furniture that she collapsed on, curling into the fetal position. The old man found a blanket nearby and draped it over her, whispering what she assumed were words of comfort but sounded like garbled nothingness. Above her, in the rafters, the hooded figure slipped silently into the room and took watch from the shadows above, soon she drifted off into sleep, as did the old man. The hooded figure dropped down quietly, his split robes splaying out beneath him as he crouched. He knelt beside the girls bed, and peeled back the blanket carefully, revealing her iron band. He gently took it in his hands and whispered words of a foreign tongue over it that created a soft purple and white glow on her arm. Her breathing became less labored immediately after that and, using the edge of his robe he wiped her blood from the shackle and her pale skin gently cleaning her. Then the hooded figure pulled the blanket back over her and leaned forward kissing her forehead gently feeling great sorrow for the fragile girl. With that the figure retreated into the shadows of the rafters where he too drifted into sleep soon after. 

Shadow of Winter Pt. 1

14^th day of the 10^th month of the 446^th year of the Second Age: Northern Hithlione

Mist hung low over the mountains as a pale half-moon rose over the dark twisted forest. Spires of rock and trees clawed at the night sky giving the horizon a sharp and unforgiving appearance. Fall was coming near an end and the mountain peaks were capped with glistening white snow that shone in the moonlight as if they were a beacon lit by some divine specter to signal the coming end of another year. High atop one of the steep, rocky, mountains sat a great stone keep with high walls surrounding the perimeter and a massive steel gate at the front. An arching bridge of fine craftsmanship connected the spire of the keep to the adjoining mountain and led to a narrow winding path down to the valley. Below the bridge was a river with smooth, black waters that reflected the sinister towers of the keep. Within the outer walls was a spacious courtyard and a small row of neglected looking wooden buildings that, at some point in time, could have been houses but were mainly used for storage since the start of the war. A small cathedral sat off to the east side of the courtyard with a large pointed steeple atop its domed roof which was inlaid with many fine stain glass windows that would bathe the cathedral floor in a marvelous kaleidoscope of color and light. In the center of the walls was a massive feat of engineering, tons of stone, mortar, and steel all combined to create one massive castle that housed the soldiers of the Hithlione Empire. The castle was small in comparison to that of the on within the capital city to the south, but was still a large building that one could easily find themselves lost in.

            Within the council chamber of the keep the commanders of the regiment were gathered around a large oak table with a large cloth map spread out before them; across the map all forts, towns, and strongholds were labeled and upon first looking at the map it was clear that the red army was winning in this region. A sturdy built man stood at the head of the table, his beard was close cropped and grey was appearing among the black. His sideburns matched the color of the sky during a storm and his eyes were a washed out blue, many battles having taken the light from behind them. He wore armor that had lost most of its polish and was stained with the grease of the northerners war machines and the blood of the men who operated them. His face was draped in shadow from the torch light, and he was silhouetted by the fireplace on the wall behind him. His name was Tanré and he was the commander of the 1206^th regiment of Imperial soldiers. The others in the room were platoon leaders and captains of various squads within the army and as they stood around the map they looked weary and demoralized from months of fighting with no ground gained. Tanré spoke in a grim voice, leaning his hands on the oak before him; 

“We have just received word that supplies from the Capital will be late. How late, none can say; it could be weeks, it could be months. This means we will have to do with what we have, and with the coming of winter and the Northern Tribes capturing another of our supply towns that could be easier said than done.” He took a deep breath, “For this reason, I move that we send out squadrons of men to find and capture enemy supplies for our own use, mainly food and fuel. Temperatures are dropping faster this year and we may only have a matter of weeks to gather as much as we can before the pass becomes too dangerous to travel. All those in favor, say ‘I’.”

            

              A deep and somewhat reluctant chorus of ‘I’s was followed by a blonde captain on the other end of the table speaking up with, “This is outrageous, we do not have the manpower to mount such an operation!” This was Vuld, almost Tanré’s equal in age, and his superior in education, Vuld had a tendency to lean more towards the side of playing things safe so as not to cause too large a ripple effect. So naturally the proposal of mounting hit-and-run attacks on the enemy would cause him to speak out, as was the case when most offensive operations were proposed. “Commander,” he continued “half the men are wounded or so weary they can barely lift a sword, sending them to combat the Tribes, likely well rested, and fed soldiers will almost certainly be their death. I say instead of more mindless attacks we send a group of men south to fetch supplies from within our own boarders.” Tanré straightened his posture and replied, “No. We do not have the time for a southward expedition, by the time the expedition returns from the south the pass will be too treacherous for wagons of supplies to travel; and successful attacks on the enemy would do well to boost the morale of the men.” Vuld looked as if he were about to form some rebuttal to that statement using all of the complicated words he had learned in his schooling, however Tanré cut him off “End of discussion. A vote has been held and the ‘I’s have it. Prep three squads, they leave at dawn for the nearest enemy camps. That should place them back here with supplies just before the first snowfall of the season. Any opposition to this operation will be ignored from this point onward. Council dismissed.” The men left gratefully, all except Vuld. He hated when Tanré pulled rank like that and over ruled any other opinion. In Vuld’s mind Tanré was the devil of this icy hell they were forced to stay in, and he would have loved to usurp the power for himself and let knowledge lead these men rather than the ‘gut-feeling’ that Tanré let dictate his decisions that had, on more than one occasion, led to the brutal defeat of the 1206^th Regiment. 

           "I see you are quite pleased with yourself." Vuld sneered "Sending a batch of disposable soldiers off to their deaths while you stay safely behind these frozen walls. I suppose it is all the same whether they fail or succeed. Succeed and there shall be plenty of food to go around; fail... and that is just less mouths to feed." Tanré glared at the other man, knowing very well that he could surely convince many of the draft soldiers that this was the case and stage a mutiny if he desired, and this far north no one would ever know about it. If they killed him they could just make up a story that he became ill or slipped down the canyon wall in a snowstorm. After coming to this conclusion Tanré could only see one solution. "I will not be staying here in safety. I will accompany the convoy there and back and assist in capturing the supplies." He dared not smile, although inside he was swelling with pride thinking that he had outwitted his opponent. "Very well." Vuld replied seeming somewhat shocked "I shall inform the men of your decision and have your horse and equipment readied along with the rest." He then saluted and left the room, the clinking of his armor fading down the hall until Tanré was left with only the crackle of the fire and the winds outside broke the silence. He suddenly felt very uneasy about this expedition and his stomach churned inside him, and try as he might he could not set his mind at ease, not even when he had gone to sleep. Dark visions of death filled his dreams the whole night through almost as if he were being warned of events to come.

Below pt. 2

Viewer discretion advised. If you are easily disturbed, find yourself easily triggered by reading about depression, suicides, or disturbing imagery, I would advise you to skip over this story and wait for a different story, as Below contains material that some may find disturbing or may cause relapses into self-destructive habits. 

(Quick Note!! I will almost always overlap my posts by 1 paragraph, so if you are reading them all at once you can usually skip that since I just copy and paste the last paragraph of the previous post as my starting point so it all flows well. Unless it's the end of a chapter that is. ) 

        It had all started a few weeks ago early one morning when a couple was out for a walk near one of the few openings in the boardwalk that allowed citizens to look into the world below like some kind of zoo. They discovered two bodies hanging from the rafters, upon bringing the bodies in, a steel shackle used to mark one of the protected prisoners was discovered on one of the corpses. The dead man was later identified as the son of one of the prominent families who had disgraced his family name and was thrown below as a scare tactic, he was buried in the cemetery later that week. The other body was a girl who no one had ever seen before and must have been one of the children of the inmates and had spent her whole life below; she was thrown back down into the darkness after an hour.

          Daelin continued down the boardwalk until reaching the inquisitor headquarters. The large wood and stone building loomed over him in an almost tired fashion he thought. It was made of mainly dark wood, like everything else in the city. And just like everything else the cold and the rain and snow had weathered the features of the structure making it seem old, tired, and foreboding. Definitely a change from the slabs of sandy clay and red bricks of his home town. Here everything seemed run-down and soggy, everything was dark and created a feeling of danger lurking around every corner. Of course in Desert Gate things weren't all that much different, everything was worn out and dangerous but it was dry there and much brighter. He remembered walking through the crowded streets as a boy, shops with merchants speaking rapidly in many tongues lined the crowded bazaar and brightly colored sheets of various  hues  were draped between rooftops turning the floor into a kaleidoscope of colors. Incense usually burned in many of the shops creating a smoky atmosphere that was often cut through by jovial laughter and chatter. 

.    

       In Dagorath everything felt different. Maybe that was just because he was an outsider and didn't understand the culture of the city. Regardless however, he could not deny that many people here had a strange air about him that he could not quite figure out. In Desert Gate there were plenty of criminals and pompous aristocrats mixed in with the common folk and Daelin could easily pick them apart and seperate them from a glance. In Dagorath however he could not; everyone seemed to be a criminal, and an aristocrat, and common at the same time. It merely depended on where you happened to meet them. And it was this phoniness that kept Daelin on alert at all times, to the point he started to wonder if he would suffer some kind of break down and go mad.

        Upon entering the Inquisitors Headquarters he was hit with a rush of heat and tobacco smoke. The walls inside were a dark red with large glass windows all around, the red was offset by more dark wood only this was much less worn and still had some shine to it in places where the finish hadn't been worn through completely. The floor was wood with tough rugs scattered around near the sitting area in the lobby. A group of men lounged in the lobby, smoking pipes and cigarettes while they spoke of the latest news in the city as well as their most recent noctournal outings. Daelin moved past them and quickly ascended the stairs to the third floor where the building was really showing it's age. The red walls were faded and stained here and there seemed to be less of an attention to detail as there was in the lobby, he had found this odd having come from a city where their architecture is considered an art form and many of the public and work buildings were painstakingly crafted with great attention to detail throughout the entire structure. 

         He pulled off his long coat and draped it over his chair before sitting down and going through the notes on his desk that had been left for him. Most of it was just a few smaller cases to look into, domestic issues and petty theft. A few caught his attention but only briefly so because from across the room a voice shouted "Hey sandman, get over here, Cheif wants to see us." It was his partner Vlad. Vlad was a somewhat stringy looking man, although his looks betrayed his immense strength. Vlad had won many fights against larger men over the course of his career and most people knew not to mess around with him, although there was always someone who thought they would be the one to finally best him. Vlad had taken to calling Daelin "Sandman" almost immediately after they had met. This was partly because he could tell just by looking at him that he was a westerner, but also because Daelin still had sand lining the pockets of his clothes. This was normal of course having come from Desert Gate, but Vlad still thought himself clever for coming up with the nickname. 

           "What's he want?" Daelin asked as he crossed the room. "Something about the murders down in the lower level a few weeks ago I guess." The two Inquisitors entered the Cheifs small office at the end of the room, inside was a large Oak desk and two heavy looking bookcases along with various trophies along the wall from past cases. A large window looked out over the city and the bay from behind the desk. The Cheif was seated behind the desk reading over various papers and scrolls. When they entered he looked up at them with his beady eyes, he was a very large man and took up most of the space between the desk and the window. He wore a yellow shirt with dark trousers held up by suspenders and a thick brown vest over the top. "Good," his voice was deep and throaty from smoking for most of his life. Daelin also noticed there was a build up of phlem behind the Cheifs voice that must have been from a cold as winter set in. "You're here. I assume you've heard about the new syndicate that is supposedly comeing to power in the lower level?" The pair of inquisitors nodded. "Well it seem that whoever this new group is they don't like us very much. Not that this is a surprise of course, every one down there hates us, but rumor has it these guys are preparing for some sort of big escape." 

"So you want us to look into it?" Vlad asked, his arms folded across his chest. 

"Yes. But more than that these murders, something's not right about them. We've looked over the bodies and it doesn't appear that they had any sort of altercation prior to their deaths." 

"You mean it was suicide?" It was Daelin who asked this time. 

"Well we haven't ruled it out yet but it seems like there's something more here and I don't like it. You see, aside from whispers in the taverns and anounomus messages this syndicate doesn't exist. They don't even have a name and no one has actually seen any of the members who wasn't drunk on ale." 

"So it's a ghost story then. Why are we even looking into this?" 

"Orders from the top, apparently these rumors along with the murders are really spooking the public." The Cheif said leaning back in his chair. "That's why I want to send the two of you down below to see what you can find." 

Vlad cut in "Wait a minute there's no chance of me heading down there with those people. This is the worst of society we are talking about, and if we go down there we will have no back up and I plan on living a full life." 

"Well it's not like I can send the new kid in on his own, besides you don't have a say in the matter. I have orders to send you there one way or another so I suggest you take the option that guarentees you get out of there if you aren't dumb enough to get yourself killed down there." 

          Daelin simply stood there quietly, he had heard stories of what it was like down there from the moment he had arrived in Dagorath and none of them were very pleasant. Apparently the worst the city had to offer was down there in the dark. The fact that he was an inquisitor going there meant he was basically just a walking target for anyone who was unhappy about their incarceration there. So Daelin assumed that meant everybody. 

Hats, and why you should care

Well folks, it's coming up on that special time of your life again, and by that I mean it's time for you to comment on my post. 

But... Why? Why should you? After all I made it blatantly obvious that I did not care what you think in my introductory post, but maybe that was just one side of me or just one of my many hats I decided to allow you to see. Maybe I do want to know what you have to say and that first post was just a biker helmet of toughness I was wearing to begin with. Now however I choose to don the hat of a diplomatic scholar, perhaps a little Rabi hat. Later I will put on my sleeping cap or perhaps my gaming headset coupled with a hood of antisocial (charisma -2, stealth +4) that also just so happens to resemble that of a Jedi. 

Is all this changing of hats really necessary though? Why can't we all just own one super hat that covers everything? Like the Ironman mask, or better yet, Kurt Russell's hair from Big Trouble in Little China. Those of you who don't know what that means can disregard that, but those of you that do, remember; it's all in the reflexes. 

I really do think though that I would be easier on us all if we could all just wear te same hat in every social situation without getting social head lice and being banished. But then again maybe not because there would be that one kid who decides that makes it okay for him to be just the worst and no one wants to see that. 

Well this post has clearly gone nowhere but maybe that's because I'm not even wearing a hat right now. Heck my hair isn't even done. Not that it matters, it's almost midnight anyways. Oh well. Thanks for reading everyone. I'm signing off now but if I'm not back in an hour, call the President. 

Below pt.1

Viewer discretion advised. If you are easily disturbed, find yourself easily triggered by reading about depression, suicides, or disturbing imagery, I would advise you to skip over this story and wait for a different story, as Below contains material that some may find disturbing or may cause relapses into self-destructive habits.  

     Chapter 1

    She woke on the dirty cell floor, her body sore from laying on the hard floor all night. Her mouth tasted stale and her breath made her empty stomach turn. Aela looked around at her surroundings trying to re-orientate herself; there wasn't much to see. Just a small square cell with a stack of straw to one side for sleeping and a small waste bucket in the corner. She had initially tried to sleep on the straw but found that it poked right through her clothes and made her itch all over so she instead slept on the floor which was hard stone covered in a layer of dirt and filth. It smelled like sweat and pipe-smoke and made her think of all the other people who had also spent long nights in this confined space, a month ago she would never have believed that she would have been one of them; but here she was. The walls were equally as barren being made of dark brown bricks presumably made of mud long ago when the cell was built. A heavy iron door with thin slits cut into it sat directly in front of her locked from the outside and bolted to the wall. Torch light from the hall creating a striped pattern along the cell walls and floor. Aside from this there was no other light in the cell. 

        She stood up groaning and leaned up against the door, her small arms dangling out into the hall through the gaps. Now she could see into the hall, she vaguely remembered being dragged down through it the previous night and tried to remember the maze of corridors that led from the outside world to her current cell. The holding cells was a sprawling complex though and she was incredibly tired the previous night by the time she was led through the maze of halls, so all she could remember was the firm grips of the guards on her arms and the hallways spinning and curving as her feet dragged behind her. Continuing to try and remember the path began to make her head ache so she stopped. Besides, it's not like she would be able to engineer an escape from what lay ahead. Not even grown men who had escaped many a prison before had managed to escape the sprawling city prison of Dagorath. 

       Deciding that any farther thought of escape and the realization that it was all in vain would only drive her into a hope deprived depression, Aela turned around and slid her back down the door until she was sitting back on the floor. From here she just stared off into space and listened to the sound of another prisoner quietly chatting with someone. After a few moments she realized however that the other prisoner was the only other living being in the hall and that he was simply murmuring to himself. "Great." She thought "I'm stuck down here with a lunatic." She felt a sinking feeling when she remembered that many of the prisoners of Dagorath were mad as well. Her throat tightened and she felt a wave of despair crash over her, she massaged her wrist, thinking of why she was here. This however only made her more upset so she tried to occupy her mind by making patterns in the rough stone wall opposite her. The other prisoner continued speaking, saying things like "they don't know... They don't know about them. Crazy crazy people. They don't even know what they don't know...." Listening to the man speak in riddles Aela let a tiny, sad grin touch her lips. Even so her eyes began to water and she chocked out a sob. She held back the overwhelming desire she had to just break down and cry like an infant. She brought her knees up to her chest and buried her head in her sleeves, muffled sobs escaping her every so often and mixing with the other inmates chatter until his talking stopped and her lamenting was the only sound in the dim hall. 

Meanwhile....

       It was chilly that morning, a cold breeze swept in off the sea foreshadowing a storm that would be coming later in the week. The streets of the boardwalk were fairly crowded as people moved about to get to their jobs and begin work on their various tasks that day. Daelin pulled his long coat close around him, he had never liked the cold, so living in Dagorath was quite unpleasant for him for all but a select few days of he year. He had formerly lived in the warm dry region on the western edge of the Federation in the city Desert Gate just outside of the desert kingdom of Ak'had. He had not wanted to move from his home, but after he had gambled away his birthright and his father had passed he decided a change in scenery might be just what he needed to get his life back on track. Finding work was hard, but it turned out there wasn't much to be found aside from a few jobs that most of the population was above or too afraid to undertake. That's how he found himself as an Inquisitor of the city, Inquisitors were kind of like disposable policemen and investigators, and since he had barely passed the exam to join he was extra expendable. It was work though. Dangerous, low paying work where he often found himself dealing with people who would happily gut him for no other reason than his title. 

       Recently there was word from the lower level --the prison level-- of the city that there was some new crime syndicate that was stirring up the inmates. Usually no one would have cared, the whole purpose of building the city in two layers was so the better half of society could blissfully forget about the scum that was literally beneath their boots. However, there were some prisoners who were placed in there for only a short period, rather than the standard life-sentence, these prisoners were specially marked as protected and it was well known that if anything happened to these inmates the rest of the prisoners would all suffer the consequences. Daelin had no clue what those consequences could be, considering the prison was already the closest thing to hell he could think of; living out your life in eternal darkness and fear among the absolute worst of society. He guessed though that he and the prisoners would soon find out just how the wardens could make life worse down below, because this new syndicate had been killing prisoners marked as protected. At least that's what rumors had stated, for all Daelin knew it was just a few incredibly disturbed men who were responsible for these acts. 

        It had all started a few weeks ago early one morning when a couple was out for a walk near one of the few openings in the boardwalk that allowed citizens to look into the world below like some kind of zoo. They discovered two bodies hanging from the rafters, upon bringing the bodies in, a steel shackle used to mark one of the protected prisoners was discovered on one of the corpses. The dead man was later identified as the son of one of the prominent families who had disgraced his family name and was thrown below as a scare tactic, he was buried in the cemetery later that week. The other body was a girl who no one had ever seen before and must have been one of the children of the inmates and had spent her whole life below; she was thrown back down into the darkness after an hour.